


jam + dom & the usa

by politicalmedievalistnerd



Series: Harry Potter Expanded Universe [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adoption, Blood and Injury, Drug Dealing, Drug Use, Drugs, F/M, Family Drama, Magical Drugs, Minor Teddy Lupin, Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, Orla McKinney (OC), Pregnancy, Recreational Drug Use, Splinching (Harry Potter), Unplanned Pregnancy, alcohol use during pregnancy, drug use during pregnancy, minor Victoire Weasley/Teddy Lupin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-18 04:58:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17574341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/politicalmedievalistnerd/pseuds/politicalmedievalistnerd
Summary: "You got us into this mess!""Okay, and?"--Dominique needs an escape. James unwittingly provides one. Victoire cleans up.





	jam + dom & the usa

**_February 2024_ **

How she’s ended up here, she isn’t quite sure. Last she remembers, she was outside the Burrow, fairly inebriated, leaning on James, who was giving her a  _ look  _ that usually came from her Mama or Molly or Rose but not James. It was too cold, even for February, and the Firewhiskey only curdled her stomach instead of making her float. Victoire had gone home before they got the chance to talk, and so she was left with one of her baby cousins. He half-carried her out the door, pretty drunk himself, but offering to apparate her home.

  
“Godric, Dom,” he said, wiping his mouth. “You’re fucked. What’s up?” She had shaken her head, grabbing a handful of his hair to shut him up, but he pushed her off, momentarily forgetting he had played Quidditch since he could walk and that she was lucky to eat a full meal once a day. Dominique had hit the ground  _ hard,  _ hard enough to make her hope, though her dress had been dirtied considerably. “Shit, sorry, hang on, lemme help you up, Godric, sorry Dom,” James said quickly, leaning over and hoisting her up by her hand. She overbalanced and knocked into him, though he quickly caught her waist and steadied her. “Lemme take you home, Dom. Or you know they’ll make you go back to Shell Cottage,” he added warningly. 

 

“Got ali?” Dom asked instead. James hesitated.

“Not for you, in the state you’re in,” he decided, looking her up and down. She rolled her eyes, lifting her fingers and ripping off a fake eyelash. She threw it at him, and it stuck to his cheek. He folded his arms.   
“ _ If  _ you let me apparate you home. And pay me back.” Dominique flipped him off.

“I’m your cousin, dick.”   
“Yeah, that’s why it’s three sickles for you, not five. Shit’s hard to get.” He rummaged through his pockets for a few moments before extracting a small bag of alihotsy leaves. He pulled one out and she snatched it up almost immediately, shoving it in her mouth and beginning to suck. James looked mournfully at the bag, and ripped one of the leaves in half before returning the little bag to his pocket. The two sat in the long grass, covered in late night dew, rolling the leaves about their mouth with their tongue. “Serious though, what’s up?”

 

She could feel the leaves starting to work, trickling down her throat, her chest contracting. The corners of her lips floated upwards. “Bit of a crisis, Jamie-boy.” He quirked a brow.

“Whatever it is, bet I’ve gone through it.”   
“Bet you haven’t,” Dominique snapped back, though it didn’t come out as aggressive as she had intended. He leaned his head on her shoulder, making a wet farting sound with his lips.

“Lady troubles?” he teased. Despite herself, a wave of hysteria burst out. James turned his head to look at her, his whole body shaking with the effort of suppressing his laughter.

“Something like that,” she said, another wave crashing against her, and she felt as though she was being dragged down the beach, into the sea. Her eyes shut, and she pictured the beaches she wished to go to, that she had planned to go to, before this. 

 

Dominique held her cousin’s wrist tightly, anchoring herself to the world as her mind drifted in and out of true consciousness, the drug beginning to change the folds of her brain. James laughed at something, though she hadn’t any idea what, still focused on the beach in her mind’s eye, with bright blue waves and a long stretch of golden sand, far from England, and her current problem. Her mind spun, and James moved closer, and when she opened her eyes, the stars had winked out. They fell through space and time and James was letting out a stream of swear words. She had read that you weren’t supposed to apparate. Another black mark against her, maybe for the better. 

 

“The fuck, Dominique?” James shouted, over the roar of the ocean. She cried out in pain, falling onto her back, head cushioned by the sand. The sky wobbled furiously, anger splayed in colours of harsh orange and pink, rippling across the sky. Something hit her face, and she blinked, feeling a weight on her stomach.  _ You might do something,  _ she thought, as James glared down at her. “The fuck? How are you in any state to apparate? The fuck did you do?” Her wrist screamed. She managed a whimper. 

  
“Shit,” he said, eyes falling on her wound. “Oh - shit, shit, Dom, fuck, fuck.” He jumped off her as though she had contracted the plague, his hands shaking. “Fuck. What the fuck, Dominique? Why the fuck?!” Tears crawled into her eyes, and she couldn’t bring herself to look down to the source of the pain. James clasped his hands together and blew on them. A round of giggles crippled him, resultant of the ali, though he fought it hard, face contorting brutally. Her face was turning numb, a cool breeze rolling in. When it passed, finally, he crouched by her side.

 

“I don’t mean to fuck you up,” he said, “but Dom, your hand’s gone. You left it back at the Burrow.” Laughter forced its way out of her, slamming against her broken ribs, tears rolling down her cheeks. James stood up, still shaking, and shouted at the sky, gesturing wildly, growing paler.

 

“James,” Dominique managed. “I could be bleeding out here.” It was all she could do not to scream, and she could feel the blood falling from the hole in her arm. A chill was spreading through her body, and James swore again. Carefully, he unbuttoned his shirt, some ugly brown thing Uncle Percy had given him as a birthday gift. Sweat glistened against his skin.

 

“Fuck.  _ Fuck, _ ” he repeated, pushing the fabric up against her exposed flesh. She flinched at the sensation and cried out. He dabbed at her arm, and she writhed against the beach, digging the fingers of her other arm into the sand. “I don’t know how to fix it, I don’t know any healing magic.  _ Fuck. _ ”

“Where are we?” she asked dazedly, still looking at the sky. It was clearer than she’d ever seen back home.

“Fuck if I know, but it’s afternoon,” James said. “Dom, can you sit up?” She propped herself up on one elbow, groaning from the effort, and he put a hand behind her back, pushing her slightly. She managed to get into a sitting position, sort of, and now she could see the full extent of the damage. There was air where her wrist should have been, her left arm coming to a bloodied stump, though James’ shirt was now tied around it. The sight made her dizzy, and it took all her willpower not to faint.

“We need to get to St. Mungo’s,” she says, as the past catches up with her. That’s how she’s here, on a beach in another timezone. She tries to be responsible now, a little niggling feeling of guilt burrowing in her stomach. James is nearly three years her junior, and yet taking care of her. 

“Dom,” he says, sweating bullets. “I can’t apparate, I’m fucking -” he laughs, “- the ali won’t let me. And you’re not doing it again, no way.

“What do we do then?” she demands, forgetting about ‘responsibility’ in her panic.

“I don’t know! You’re the reason we’re here!” he shoots back. She laughs, somehow, at the insanity of the situation, and then he helps her to her feet. A beach stretches out to the sea, in front of them, and behind there are weak dunes covered in patches of grass.

 

“Muggles,” James says, pointing ahead, and she follows his gaze. In the distance, a rocky arm sticks out from the coastline, and closer, what looks like a carpark by an outcrop of white buildings with red roofs. Wherever they are, it’s not England, that’s for certain, not just from the architecture and time of day, but it’s roughly ten degrees warmer, too. She’s always been one of the few that could master international apparition, with her Uncle Percy always blabbing on about how she’d make a great asset to the transport department, but she hasn’t any idea where she is now. 

“Maybe they’ve got a hospital,” Dom suggests.

“How will we explain it, though?” James asks, gesturing to her mess of an arm. 

“I don’t know, but it’s better than nothing.”   
“I can’t obliviate people! I don’t even know what country we’re in! What if it’s one of those places with the death penalty for breaking the statute?”   
“What? Those places exist?” She’d never paid any attention in history. “Well, I’m older, so we’re going there, because I say so, and it’s our best chance.”   
“You got us into this mess!”   
“Okay,  _ and?”  _

 

They bicker their way across the beach, Dominique’s head still pounding. Once James is sure she can walk on her own, he runs down to the water like a little kid, kicking the water. “Oh, fuck!” he yells, as a wave breaks against him, white water soaking his pants and feet. He shakes himself off like a dog and sticks his tongue out at her. She laughs and it hurts. They stumble to the edge of what appears to be a caravan park, or some sort of holiday place, rather than the carpark they assumed. Holidaymakers mull about, sporting string bikinis and loose trousers. It’s not overly busy.. Ahead, there are umbrellas stuck in the sand, and small cabins. Palm trees line the road behind the beach. 

 

“Island-y?” she murmurs, frowning at her cousin. “Palm trees. But the roofs look a bit Spanish-y.” The throbbing in her arm continues, but it’s so constant that she is starting to be able to breathe without focusing on it. Cold runs down her skin like she’s under a disillusionment charm.

“Maybe it’s the island part of New York,” James says. “I mean, listen to the people, they sound American.” He’s right, she thinks, and wants to smack herself. She’s fucked up bad. Tell a muggle about the wizarding world and she’ll end up dead, or at the very least, wandless and obliviated.  She rests a hand on her stomach, and the moment she realises, snatches it away. She hasn’t found herself here before, but James has, and she stops, looking at him expectantly.

“You came here as a kid, didn’t you?” she says, grasping at straws. “Where’d you go? To find the magic people?”   
“I dunno!” James says, raising his hands in the air. “If we can get to the main bit of New York, there’s a MACUSA office there. But...I think if it’s across the water, we should be able to see that blue lady from here.” Dom frowns into the sunset. No blue lady.  _ Fuck. _

“Are you sure it’s New York?” she asks, wincing slightly. She feels like she’s slowing down, somehow. “Maybe it’s Holywool, or Lost Veggies. I think they’re in the same area.” 

“Well, we can ask,” James shrugs. “That’s just that we’re tourists, not magic. But you know those aren’t the right names, yeah?”

 

They approach the camp set-up like they might approach a temperamental hippogriff, and Dom leans on James again, partially for sympathy but also because her arm really fucking hurts. 

“Hullo,” James says, when they’re about five metres from a campsite to an elderly woman, who is giving them the kind of glare that a professor might when you came in an hour after curfew reeking of firewhisky. 

“Hello,” she says crossly, clutching her knitting with one hand and pointedly adjusting her tennis cap with the other. She wears skinny shades and a white polo shirt, with multicoloured beads looped around her neck. “You think that’s appropriate?” she sneers, gesturing to James’ shirtlessness. To Dominique’s surprise, her cousin composes himself and doesn’t tell the old lady to fuck herself. He’s had a bit of practice over the years with elderly strangers, she thinks. “You’ll catch a chill.” 

“My cousin here is using it for her arm. Bit of a nasty accident,” James says.

“British?”   
“Yes. I grew up near Weymouth,” James smiles.

“I’m descended from one of the Kings of England,” says the old woman. James blinks. “I could be on the throne, right now, you know. Back in the eighties, I went to London.” If Dominique’s arm didn’t feel like someone was sticking pins in her voodoo doll, she would’ve laughed.

 

“Right,” James says, and flashes his teeth. “So,  _ your majesty,  _ could you tell us if we’re in Las Vegas?” The woman pauses, only looking slightly more friendly, and leans forward.

“Vegas?” she says, disgust creeping into her voice. “Well, you Brits certainly like a drink!” She didn’t seem to claim her heritage so eagerly now. “Honey, you’re in California.” Dominique hadn’t realised that Las Vegas wasn’t in California until now.

“Right. Sorry. I meant Los Angeles. My mistake, this is the first time I’ve visited this part of the country,” James says quickly.

“Honey, Camp Pendleton is just back there,” she says, gesturing to the road. “Los Angeles is about an hour north, depending on where you wanna go.” She wrinkles her nose. James thanks her and they stumble out of the campgrounds and past a line of cabins to come to a road. Dominique’s head spins.  _ An hour?  _ They walk for nearly that long, James’ shirt turning red. It’s only makeshift. The sun dips further down in the sky, running its lips across the horizon, splattering the blue skin of the water with golden hickeys. Not far from what looks to be a sort of village, she falls on her arse, and looks up at James. She has to tell him.

 

“James,” she says, voice ragged. “Look, you know I don’t give a fuck about me, I’d happily bleed out.” He almost looks offended.

“I’m not letting you bleed out,” he says. “Once we find a phone booth - or any phone - we’re going to dial the International Wizards’ Emergency Number and get help.” She’s momentarily distracted.

“International Wizards’ Emergency Number?”   
“Sure. There has to be one, doesn’t there?” he says, and she winces. It’s still strange, not having a hand at the end of her arm. She wonders if they’ve found it back in England, and hopes it wasn’t Nanna Weasley who came across it. If she’s the reason for Nanna dying of shock, she’ll never forgive herself. 

“James, I’m pregnant.”

 

“Dom, can you not make the situation worse?” James says, sitting down next to her and crossing his arms. She makes a face at him.   
“I’m serious, you dickhead.” He looks like he might laugh, until his dark eyes meet hers and he falls silent, face frozen and then falling, just the way she’s imagined her mother or father or Victoire might react.  _ Don’t do that,  _ she thinks.  _ I’m not asking you for charity, I’m telling you something.  _ It wasn’t the pregnancy on its own, she knows, there were no concerns of being too young when everyone had been over the moon for Victoire at Dominique’s age and younger. It’s the other factors, like the  _ unmarried  _ bit, or even the  _ no partner at all bit,  _ or even worse, the  _ I have no fucking idea who the father might be  _ bit. It’s because she’s Dom, after all, Dom who drinks hard and takes ali even while knowing she’s pregnant, and if she does that, who’s to say what she’ll do as a mother?

 

“Dom,” he says, voice wavering, and then it comes out stronger. “ _ Dom,  _ what the fuck?”   
“I know,” she says. “I hate it.”

“But - you drank! I gave you ali, for fuck’s sake. What the fuck, Dom? And you knew? And you’re not meant to apparate - or drink - or take drugs - or,  _ fuck,  _ Dom.” James gets to his feet and begins pacing, nervous energy crackling at the ends of his fingers and deep in his spine. “I don’t want to be part of your - whatever you’re doing, your cheapskate abortion, whatever. This is fucked up! And we have to get you to hospital, now, okay, fuck it, get up. Get up, Dom!” He grabs her good arm and pulls her, and she nearly trips, shaking.

 

“What does it matter?” she asks, attempting to wrench herself from his grip. “I’m only telling you because you’re my cousin, but it’s not like it’s any of your business.”

“Because I don’t feel right about it!” James shouts. “Okay? If you don’t want a baby - use contraception, or go get an abortion, or adopt them out, or  _ whatever,  _ it’s your choice, but I’m not letting you do shit unsafely, and half drink yourself to death. You gotta get your shit together!”

“You won’t  _ let  _ me?” Dominique demands, pushing past him. She can find a hospital on her own. “I don’t need your permission, James! You’re my little cousin, don’t forget!”   
“Yeah, but you’re acting like a baby, Dom! Look, I fuck up sometimes - a lot - but Dad always says if I take responsibility for it, it’ll turn out better. What has all this been? A suicide attempt, or a fucked up home abortion attempt? What if you’d splinched  _ me,  _ Dom?” He grabs her bad shoulder and knocks her down. She hits the road  _ hard  _ and feels the skin peel off her knees. Her blood is exposed to the open air and it burns.

 

“So caring,” she snipes. James runs his fingers through his hair. “Definitely gonna keep the sprog safe.”   
“Shit, Dom, you know I didn’t mean to. Just tell me what the go is. Please.” He buries his face in his hands.

“The  _ go  _ is that it’s a bit late for an abortion. I’m five months.”

“No way.”   
“Yes way.”   
“But...no offence, but you’re not fat.”   
“Yeah, duh. I’m trying to hide it, smartass.”

“But...What are you gonna do?”

“I don’t fucking know! If it lasts to June, I’ll dump it somewhere in France and nobody’ll ever know.” James takes her hand and they stand, walking along the street, and she sticks her tongue out at him on account of his continual worried glances at her belly. Shops pop up on either side of them and they follow a thin footpath. Palm trees sway gently in the evening breeze above them, illuminated by the soft glow of street lamps. As far as she can see, there aren’t any public phones. 

 

After twenty minutes of waiting, James on the side of the road, thumbs out, a car slows down, though pulls over to the other side of the road. Dominique frowns.

“We’re on the wrong side of the road,” James says, after a beat. They link their fingers, look both ways, and run across the street as quickly as possible. A tanned woman, maybe a little older than Dom, sits up in the front seat and winds the window down.

“I work with Uber,” she says. “Was on my way home. Why didn’t you guys use the app?” Dominique and James exchange looks.

“Uber?” Dominique repeats. She’s never heard of it, and she doesn’t think James has either.

“Oh,” the girl says. “Are you Irish? I guess they don’t have it over there.” Dominique smiles, content to let the girl think it’s a transatlantic difference rather than a muggle-magical difference.

“English, actually,” James says. “Can we hop in?”

“Sure,” the girl shrugs. “I’m Maci.” James jumps in the front, so Dom slides into the backseat. She can count on one hand the amount of times she’s been in a motorvehicle, and tugs at the strap resting against the seat, letting it slack before holding onto it. James chats away, and they pull out onto the road.

 

One of the first things that shocks Dominique is the speed; even on the fastest broomsticks, she doesn’t think she’s travelled this quick, and she clutches the strap tighter. This is a speed for professional Quidditch players, and she’s always preferred to be in the stands. Maybe Uber is a racing company, she thinks, and if she wasn’t already feeling like shit, it would’ve excited her. As it is, James winds the window down, sticking his arm out. She can hear the wind hit his skin. 

 

“Where’re you headed?” Maci asks casually, as the car growls. 

“Nearest hospital, please,” James says, and Dominique makes a noise involuntarily. They haven’t talked about it. Does he think he’ll find a payphone there? It’ll be swarming with muggles, and one screw up could give them away. She feels sick. James glances at her in the little hanging mirror, glaring, as if to say,  _ let me decide now, because you’re the one who got us in this mess and can’t get us out.  _ She holds the shirt close to her stump and the journey seems to take forever. James makes jumpy conversation in the front, switching topics as quickly as one flicks the pages of a book, and the American flirts and Dom almost opens the car door and throws herself out onto the road. Almost. But she can’t put any more on James than she already has.

 

There’s a jolt, and they stop moving. Something whirs and clicks and the doors open, and Maci tosses her hair over her shoulder and turns around.

“Here you go,” she says lightly. “You’ll be okay to go in?”

“‘Course. Thank you very much,” James smiles, touching the girl familiarly. 

“Alright. Uh, as you didn’t do the Uber thing - um, do you have money?” Maci gives them both an awkward smile, and James’ face remains impassive. He shifts in the seat.

“Hey - Maci. Maci.” He slings his arm over her shoulder. “Dominique really needs to get into the hospital. If we’d had any money, we would’ve used it. We’re in a bad spot.” His voice is low and soothing. “Dom’s - you know.” He makes a gesture. Dominique exhales angrily through her nose.  _ That’s not yours to tell!  _

“Oh! Oh my god, I didn’t - you don’t look -” Maci glances worriedly at Dom, “-sorry, I got the wrong - um, jeez, I -”

“He’s a piece of shit slacker. Abandoned her. Brother’s duty to look out for her,” he lies easily, and Maci stops squirming at the revelation of James and Dominique’s relationship. “And since Mum - we hoped to get away from that, here. It’s just all gone wrong, see?”

 

Dominique averts her eyes, but still picks up the undertones and murmurs until Maci agrees to let them go without paying. They stand on the side of the road until she disappears over the horizon.

“How often do you lie?”

“Bout as often as you do something self-destructive Dom. Leave it be. I did it for you.”

 

000

 

Five hours later, they are standing outside again, after being shuffled through the hospital by angry-looking nurses and being repeatedly asked for money, cards, or any proof of identity. James kept leaving Dominique to try and deal with the rather pissed-off American nurses while he ducked into every room he could, practically screaming,  _ “GINNY WEASLEY! HARRY POTTER! QUIDDITCH! HOGWARTS! ILVERMORNY!”  _ in hope of finding another witch or wizard. Eventually, an old man waved at them, and stubbornly claimed they were his grandchildren, coming to visit, and in the end, something was muttered about old-timers. He was a muggle-born visiting his sister in hospital. He pressed coins into their hands out of the goodness of his heart, told them what to do and now they wait for another taxi. A magical one, sort of like the night bus, bright yellow. They slip inside and James makes conversation. Dominique sits in the back again and stares out the window.

 

It’s turned to night, and she can see the ocean, still, from here. Some people would go crazy over it, wind down the window to smell the salty air, but she grew up in  _ Shell Cottage  _ for fucks’ sake. The taxi goes so fast that Dominique pukes on the carpet and so they do wind the windows down. The cold wind hits her face like icy water and she realises, numbly, that they will be starting to panic, that they will have noticed her being gone. The drugs are wearing off.

 

The driver asks them to follow him, leads them down a back alley, one that isn’t plastered with neon signs and promises of cheap drinks and fairy lights. As they walk, he explains. “Muggles pass right by it. Trash can? Brazil. Box? Mexico. Plastic bag? Italy. And here,” he gestures to a paper bag with a takeaway logo she doesn’t recognise stamped on it in red, “is England. It’ll take you to your Ministry. You can floo from there.” James holds her hand and they thank him and touch the portkey, and spin through space and time until she lands on her arse in the foyer. James does the explaining and she stares at her feet, and they make her sit down and call for a Healer. 

 

“No, I’m coming with you,” James insists, staring her down, as a Healer guides her over to the floo network. “Dom, I can’t let you be alone. You’re in a shitty state.”

“Mr. Potter!” There’s a flash of light as James turns around, and Dominique winces, her stomach sinking. She should’ve known, especially at somewhere as conspicuous as the Ministry. People chased after the Potters like bloodhounds.

“I think it would be best if you didn’t come,” the Healer says, with narrowed eyes. She takes Dominique’s hand, and Dominique blinks, not expecting it to be slick with sweat. “Go home.; Tell your family.” The Potter name has stirred some sort of frenzy and more appear now, some apparating into view, and she sees James take a deep breath. Put on his ‘show’ face. She sags against the Healer, who pulls her into the fireplace. Sometime between leaving and arriving she loses consciousness.

 

000

“Miss Weasley? Miss Weasley?” Her head is pounding, and there’s a stinging in her arm. She opens her eyes, and the light pierces her pupils in flashes of anger. Dominique groans, and half-shuts her lids, until the Healer shakes her. Jolts run through her body and the stinging turns to a burn.

“Fuck,” she grumbles, meaning for it to be a shout. The woman by her bedside touches her arm tenderly.

“Sorry, Miss Weasley. I’m Healer McKinney,” the lady introduces herself. “I bought you in, when they told me you looked like waking up, I came in. Your family is all very worried.” Dominique wants to hit the woman. Her  _ family?  _ She can only imagine the lectures. “I spoke to Victoire - I believe you’ve put her as next-of-kin, not your parents? - and she’s waiting outside, but the rest have been sent to the cafe.” Victoire is only her next-of-kin because being chewed out by your big sister is slightly better than being chewed out by your parents, and there’s no risk of Victoire switching to French mid-rant and being pissed off when Dom inevitably can’t understand it. 

 

“Mm. Vic’s nextakin.”

“Yes, right. How are you feeling? I can get you some water, you need to keep your fluids up, but no food yet.”   
“Mm.”

 

The Healer brings her a cup and she drains it, feeling strangely parched, and props herself up on her elbows. Healer McKinney frowns and waves her wand, adjusting the back of the bed so it sits more upright.

“Right then. We have some things to discuss. Most pressingly - as you may have seen, you’ve regained your hand, past the stump. You’re a very lucky girl, in that regard. We assume everything will work properly, but there are some reports of it disappearing at random moments, or simply losing use of it for a few hours - it’s a very new technique. Hence why you’re in for monitoring. You lost a lot of blood, so you’ll need to drink a blood-replenishing potion every hour, on the hour, until you’re two weeks discharged. We’ll discuss the details of your discharge later, however.” Healer McKinney waves a hand. “Also, Miss Weasley - we don’t know if you know, so it may come as a shock, but you’re pregnant. Twenty weeks.”

  
“Mm. I know.”   
“I - oh. You know.”   
“I know.”   
“Right.” There’s a lull, and Dominique wants to scream, would scream, if she thought she could. She gets it; she’s shit, horrible, whatever the fuck, she just wants to collapse in her bed and not wake up until September. “You had a dangerous amount of alcohol in your system for a non-pregnant person, and you ingested alihotsy - your cousin says you smoked it - which can cause birth defects.”

“I know.” Healer McKinney hesitates, and Dominique stares at her with dead eyes. She can feel the contempt radiating off the older woman, and she wishes she was strong enough to apparate away.

 

“We told your sister.”

“No,” Dominique blurts out, voice weak, shaking. Her hands start to tremble. “No, no, she can’t know. No!” She struggles to sit up, tries to swing her feet around, but Healer McKinney stares her down. 

“Brachiabindo,” says the other woman, and Dominique feels her arms tighten to her body, her ankles pull together. She falls back, helplessly. “I’m sorry, Miss Weasley, but given your history, we’ve been advised to use restraints if need be.”   
“Fuck you,” Dominique spits. 

“We’ll let your sister in,” Healer McKinney says, standing and brushing off her robes. She makes for the door and opens it. Victoire enters, her hair loose like a golden cape. It makes Dom’s blood boil, makes her shake. It’s exactly what she never wants to be. Her elder sister is the perfect picture of domestic life, in jeans and a pink blouse, probably with a maternity bra underneath, Dominique sneers, only the slightest darkness beneath her eyes on account of late nights with three children under three. There’s a baby bag slung over her shoulder and Dominique reaches for the empty plastic cup, as if hoping it would magically be filled with alcohol. But her wand has been taken.

 

“Dom,” says Victoire softly, approaching the bed slowly, bent over somewhat. She waves her wand, whispering an incantation, and her hair is pulled back into a bun. Dominique’s eyelids flutter, trying to save her from the sight of her perfect sister. “How are you feeling?”   
“Shitty,” snarls Dominique. “I hate this fucking hospital.”   
“Well, that’s not good, is it now?” Victoire says, in a voice she might use with one of her kids. Dominique sticks her chin out petulantly.

“I’m not a child.”

“You’re not,” Victoire agrees. “But James practically is. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny aren’t very happy with you. Neither are Dad and Mama, in truth.” Dominique struggles against the invisible bonds holding her back, and Victoire reaches out, stroking her cheek. “Lay down. You’ll feel better, I promise.”

 

“I didn’t mean to drag James into it,” Dominique grumbles. “He was just...I dunno, he was just there.”

“I thought Nanna’s heart was going to give out,” Victoire says, and Dom can’t tell if she’s joking or not. “The adults went - well, mental, if I’m honest. Dad cried, Dom.”

“Dad doesn’t cry,” she says shortly.

“He did. It was too similar, I think, to - you know. When people went missing, stolen out of their gardens. Blood traitors,” Victoire adds. “The Weasley name still isn’t very popular in some circles, and I suppose they jumped to conclusions. We’re all very grateful you’re alright.”

“Huh. Me too.”

 

“I don’t mean to be harsh, Dominique, really,” Victoire says, and Dom winces at the name when said by her sister. “But alihotsy? If Uncle Harry didn’t have the money for a good lawyer, James could be facing time in Azkaban.”   
“What?”

“Selling drugs, Dominique. He was in the wrong, yes, but -”   
“He didn’t sell them to me. He  _ gave  _ them to me. Well, I didn’t pay.”

“Yes, but they investigated because of your symptoms. And he has been selling. You shouldn’t have taken drugs with him, is the bottom line, you should have told Uncle Harry or Dad or  _ somebody  _ responsible.”

“He’s a grown man, I can’t stop him!”   
“He’s nineteen!”   
“And you were engaged by nineteen! I’m his cousin, not his babysitter, I can’t stop him from selling drugs, that’s not my fault. Don’t blame everything on me, okay?” Dominique yells. Victoire leans in closer, her lips to her little sister’s ear.

“He didn’t incriminate you, Dominique, because he is a good person. I wouldn’t say you would have done the same for him. But we both know how you make money. And if James doesn’t get off, they may do further investigating.” Dominique’s blood runs cold, and she pulls back, hitting her head against the bed. 

 

“What do you  _ want _ ?” she growls, heart skipping a beat.

“I haven’t told anyone you’re pregnant,” Victoire says simply. “That’s up to you. But I have a question about it.”   
“I don’t know who the father is.”   
“I figured,” her sister says pointedly. “That’s not what I was going to ask. I want to know, Dominique - do you really want to be a mother?”

“Fuck no.”   
“But have you really thought-”

“Yes. I don’t. I don’t want a kid. Happy? I’m irresponsible and stupid and I’m a lying, selfish drug dealer, is that what you want to hear?” Victoire blinks a few times, pulling away, and Dom waits for the guilt to turn in her stomach. It doesn’t.

 

“I have a proposition.”   
“It’s too late for an abortion.”   
“Let me speak. I have a proposition.”   
“Hit me.” Victoire takes her hand, squeezing it. Dom stares.

“Sign the guardianship over to me. I have three kids already, what’s one more? Teddy’s okay with it. I did tell him, actually. Sorry. I’ll raise them, and if they look like you, I’ll say it’s my genes, and if they look like  _ whoever  _ the father is, I’ll blame it on Teddy. They don’t have to know - you can take sick leave from work on account of your injuries from the splinching, use your holiday pay, stop clubbing and stay inside, and the rest of the family doesn’t have to know either. My kids will be too little to remember. I’ll do it, Dominique.” Her sister’s voice is thick and cough-y and breaks at the end.

“What’s the catch?”   
“The catch,” Victoire says, almost looking pained. “Is that you can’t drink, or smoke, or take drugs, or overexert yourself, or apparate for the rest of the pregnancy. That you won’t get to raise your child.”

“Fine.”

 

The silence in the air becomes cloying, after a time, and Victoire stays by her bedside until she needs to pump. “One moment,” she says, excusing herself, and Dominique looks at the white tiles of the roof. 

“I’m a shitty person,” she whispers to herself. And everyone else is taking the fall for her. James with the drugs, Victoire with the baby. She can’t feel bad about it, not right now.

 

But she will.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this fic is slightly incoherent, but it was basically a bunch of scenes I wanted to get out that are loosely-ish connected!


End file.
